The bird was of a mythical colour. It was no larger than the common tree sparrow.
It came from quite a distance, travelled quite a distance. From the sky to the city below.
It was a bird never before witnessed. It had no name in the world of ornithology.
It was of a species born of isolation. Of myths, folklore, the undiscovered colony.
The rare jewel flapped its wings for the last time. Thus it slipped into a concrete crevice.
Its eyes shut, beak rested on its breast. An emblem crimson in the mark of a heart.
In the early smog and the cold it tucked. No bathing, no dusting, no nests.
By high noon it had died, its plumes rigid. No weeping, no poetics, no song.
He accumulated all of his strength to love her. He devoted all of his life to her happiness.
With that and without intention. He built her melancholy prison.
He could never give her what she needed. Simply because he did not have it.
When she died they opened her heart. There was nothing, she had escaped.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Monday, February 10, 2014